


A Lion Never Roars After a Kill

by ravinilla



Category: VIXX
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, M/M, Mild Gore, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-23
Updated: 2016-08-23
Packaged: 2018-08-10 15:25:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7850347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravinilla/pseuds/ravinilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wonsik wakes up in chambers that are not his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lion Never Roars After a Kill

He didn't know how it happened—one moment, he was eating in the grand dining room (the one privately set aside for royals and not larger events), and the next, his entire existence was nothing. It was all black. He had long after come to in a room that wasn't his chambers—in fact, the room was entirely unfamiliar.

Though he was still in the throws of drowsiness, his heart began to race. What did he remember? What was the very last thing he remembered . . . He clenched his eyes closed, forcing himself to breath long and slow through his nose; he remembered . . . a door from the dining room opening. He remembered . . . a servant politely asking if he wanted more to drink, which he knew he said yes to. After that? After that . . . Darkness.

Panicking wouldn't help and he knew that, but the bile quickly rising in his throat had him folding over and choking. Terror slowly crackled to life in his veins, tightening all his muscles—he needed to do something. He needed . . . He needed to figure out where he was first.

Panting to recovery, he pulled himself up and gathered his surroundings; first, the room: ornate and large, tones of gold and navy, with all fabrics clearly made of the finest silks and velvets, and he was on a large bed of the same. It clearly told him he was in a castle of some sort, but not his own—second, the two fortified windows to his right, large and arced. Daylight poured in, telling him he had been here at least one night . . . But how much longer than that?

At the end of the of the king-sized bed was an equally long chaise lounge, and farther across from that: guilded double doors, at least twice his own height.

He clutched at his chest and crawled to the edge of the bed. The floor was mainly rugs over stone, plush and soft, and he wiggled his toes only to realize he was barefoot.

Whipping his head about to find a mirror, he rushed to the corner of the room where a clear full length one stood. He wore white sleeping robes. Bile rose in his throat again—someone _changed_ him. Someone, in this foreign castle, _dressed_ him, saw his nudity, put their hands all _over_ him. He braced himself against the wall, fighting against the tears that sprung into his eyes. He was so scared, and that wasn't like him.

He needed to escape.

He pushed himself off the wall and staggered to the high double doors, pulling at the handle. It wouldn't budge. He yanked at it. It moved, but he could hear a faint clack from inside the door mechanism—it was _locked._ Yes, of course it was, that was common sense. A prisoner was kept locked in. He was a prisoner.

In frustration, he palmed at his eyes and leaned against the door.

_Remember your training. You've been taught for this._

Counting in his head, he inhaled, nice and slow. All the way to ten, and then exhaled back to zero again. One more time. One more time.

His heart still thrummed in his head, but it wasn't as loud or controlling of his nerves.

_You're trapped, but unharmed. Analyze the situation. You've trained for this._

He had been trained, mainly against his will, but he hadn't actually _thought . . ._ He shook his head. That didn't matter. What mattered was now he had to escape somehow.

He leaned against the door and gazed around the room, trying to scope out weaknesses. Though his legs were wobbly, he pushed forward and began to search the perimeter, ducking behind furniture and such. So far, nothing.

His limbs weakened the longer he searched, hope dying a slow death. He clenched his eyes that began to burn closed and his throat began to tighten up.

_Don't cry. You're strong. You're never alone._

He breathed out evenly through his nostrils. No. He was never alone.

He went back to the bed and dropped to the floor, looking under it for anything. Though carpet covered the stone floor, the light visibly outlined a bumpy surface. His eyes widened and he jumped back up. He inspected the bed from all angles, trying to figure out the best way to move it even though it must weigh five times his own weight.

_Just a little bit . . ._

He braced himself against one of the posts and used his legs to push. It stubbornly stayed put and he huffed out; he changed his stance and then gave a mighty shove, grunting—it finally budged. He took a deep breath and shoved again, then hurried around to the other side to pull. It moved more.

Feeling hopeful, he headed to the other sides and repeated the process. At least twenty minutes had to have passed while he struggled to move it, but that didn't matter.

_You have the strength._

The familiar, gentle voice in his head continued to encourage him. The bed finally sat more than halfway from where he started. He wanted to move it more, but he needed to leave this place. It would have to be enough.

After yanking up the carpet, he picked a fancy ornament off from one of the dressers and weighted it down to stay up; it was in his way and he wished he could cut it off, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

Back on the stone floor, he reached farther in and felt around for the lumps that started this. When his hands grazed over the cool iron of a round handle, he gasped in both surprise and relief.

Just as he was about to pull at it, distant shouting startled him. His eyes popped wide and he shot up. His heart began to pound and he jerked the carpet back down, smashing the ornament he used to keep it up.

The yelling rose from both outside the door and outside the window, below. He ran around the bed to the barred window and pulled up onto the sill for a better look.

The scene below was distorted by the frosty, mosaic window, but he could make out the scene of a battalion charging in. Closer to the walls were the castle's guard, both standing their ground and charging forward too, ready to combat them. He squinted, struggling to see the opposing squadron, but the glass blurred everything too much. He curled his hands into fists.

_I have to get out of here._

If this castle—not his castle—was under siege by another kingdom, and if they found him . . . He needed to escape before whoever actually kidnapped him came to retrieve him. How far from home could he possibly be?

Leaping off the windowsill and rushing back to the bed, he threw off the carpet and shoved his hand in for the iron handle. A long, distressing moment had to pass before his hand grasped it, and then he pulled. The back of his hand hit the iron bed slat in the frame and he winced, but pushed passed it to move.

There wasn't much room for the secret door to open, and he probably should have moved the bed more, but there was no time. Sucking a deep breath, he turned his body and began to slide, propping both the carpet and door out of his way with his knee.

Fear flung through him when the bedroom door began to unlock. Desperate, he jammed himself further under and the tight fit scraped along his sides with the promise of bruises later.

Just as his head dipped in to join the rest of his body, the door burst open. A savage voice shouted, _We have to move him! The Lion is here!_

His heart jumped into his throat.

_"Where did he go?!"_

The secret passageway was narrow and tight, but he skidded through as best as he could and nearly fell down a hole with a latter. The back of his mind babbled about how battered and bruised his body would be by the time he was free of this place.

Cruel voices chased him down—people were after him. He wouldn't stop despite his body rapidly draining, and eventually finding himself in the dungeons.

The wet stone walls amplified the echos of battle while he ran along them. He was surprised and alleviated at the lack of guards around, despite it being a dungeon. He wasn't sure where he was going or if this was even the right direction, but as long as he could leave here, it didn't matter.

He snatched up rusty keys from a rotting wood table, wiping at the sweat threatening to sting his eyes. His jittery fingers fiddled with the one that lead to the main doors, and behind him there was a bang—the way out of the tunnels had been opened again.

_Oh god._

Stomps closed in on him and the keys almost fell from his shaky hands before he shoved one into the old keyhole, begging that it would be the right one.

When it was, he kicked open the door and threw his fatigued body into a sprint. The torched hallway began to fade into windows and open arches that showed courtyards and gardens. Smoke billowed to life in the sky and he made a sharp turn left because he knew it was coming from the front.

He turned another corner—quickly skidding to a stop to see guards rushing pass him. Most of them missed that he was there, but two stopped and he tried to duck back into a pillar to hide.

"You there!"

His heart plummeted into his stomach.

_Training! Training! Training! Remember!_

His eyes danced around for weapons on the wall, but there were none. Right in front of him though, was a table under a regal photo with a few gaudy flower vases on it. The steel boots of the guards rang closer and he dove for one.

"Halt!" one shouted.

A sword swiped by his ear as his hands clasped around the vase. He swung around and smashed both it and his hand against a metal helmet. It knocked the guard off balance. The second parried around in a dodge, lunging a hefty ax for his torso. He dropped back. It swung for his sprawled out arm. He yanked it into himself, his fingers barely missing the blade.

_I'm going to die._

Despite the thought, he rolled around, swinging his legs to trip the ax-bearing guard. The sword guard had caught himself by then, slicing for his chest. He dove over the ax guard, stomping his wrist with his bare foot and snatching up the handle of the ax.

"You!"

Whoever had been chasing him caught up and was ready to double on him with the swordsman. He clenched his eyes closed as he whirled the ax around and hacked off the guard's arm. Wails broke out and his ax accidentally—but thankfully—clashed with the other guard's sword. The horrible clang rang in his ears, stinging all the way up his spine and into his teeth. He didn't have time to think about the awful feeling before the sword's tip cut into his clothes.

He spun the ax in a vertical circle, knocking out the sword's hilt and pushing off the guard's helmet. He stumbled back in surprise, but there was no time for anything else—the flat side of the ax knocked into his head. A horrible _CRACK_ shot through his ears and the second guard fell.

"Drop your weapon!"

The ax instinctively fell from his hands. Time move slow as he looked over his shoulders. The person chasing him rushed forward. He didn't bother with anything else, body screaming for rest, but he sprinted off again. He wouldn't survive another run-in with more soldiers.

Nothing but screaming and shouting and clangs surrounded him and he just wanted _out._

A violent explosion shook the earth and he fell into a wall, banging his head. Outside, a large part of the castle crashed to the ground, crushing any unlucky enough to be caught under it. His own world still quaking, he tripped forward, praying he would make it out of this place _alive._

When voices were shouting louder and louder, he could tell he was getting closer to the main entrance—not ideal, but what other choice did he have? He was just going to have to deal with trying to sneak around all the savage fighting when he got there.

_"Watch yourself!"_

_"He's a monster!"_

_"Why is he here?!"_

_". . . the Lion!"_

_The Lion. The Lion. The Lion._

He clenched his eyes closed, barreling through a door and not daring to look over his shoulder. Just as he was about to throw himself through another, a second explosion knocked him off his feet. Debris throttled and cut into his body. The world blared in his ears with it and he rubbed at his eyes, shook his head, and tried to get a grip on himself.

He struggled to his feet, stumbling through, tripping over everything in sight—destroyed walls, fiery furniture, _corpses._ The sights were enough to shoot bile up his throat. He charged on.

Before he could enter the main entrance, an arrow whizzed past his head. The shell of his ear split and he hissed, subsequently shouting as the pain smacked into him. He slipped and fell to the side. A second arrow lodged into the carpet, just short of his heel.

Battle raged on all around him, cries and screams and metal grinding against each other in his head. Shouts and wails signified lives ended and were followed by the heavy thumps of bodies falling to the floor.

Terror soaked him and he pushed himself up into the wall, panicked, trying to mask himself with a fallen warrior.

"Where is he?!" a voice screamed, and he flinched in his hiding spot. "Where is the prince?!"

Sudden roars of a prince escaping bounced off the tall walls of the room.

"The prince is here?!" another voice shouted, just barely rising over the other sounds.

"The prince is here!"

"The prince is here!"

_"FIND HIM!"_

He cowered into the wall and floor, pleading that he could stay hidden in plain sight.

_"WONSIK!"_

Time froze. His eyes popped open. The roar of one person was enough to silence all others in his mind.

_"Wonsik, where are you?!"_

"The Lion, he's here—"

Before they could finish, their voice broke into a deathly gurgle. Another explosion shook the castle and the walls began to cave on themselves.

His eyes widened and he pushed himself away from the bodies hiding him, knowing he couldn't stay. He tried to crawl back the way he came, but he choked.

The point of a sword to sharp poked into his throat and he froze.

A man with cruel eyes—those same eyes that asked him if he wanted a drink that night—stared him down with death.

"Do not move." the man warned, prepped to stab him through.

"EVERYBODY FREEZE!" he then shouted, and his voice rang so loud that the destroyed foyer fell silent. "This is your prince! If you wish to see him live, you will surrender!"

Eyes wide with terror, he stared up at the man who stared into the room, his burning glare threatening to maim everyone. He couldn't make any sudden movements—he was absolutely sure there were arrows pointed at his back, ready to shoot.

"Let him free," a familiar voice growled, "or you will be the one to die."

His captor laughed cruelly. "So the great _Lion_ thinks he can defeat me?" he spat.

He burned with the need to look over his shoulder, eyes watery, but every muscle in his body was rigid with dread and caution. One wrong move would cost him his life. His heart thudded in his ears, nearly deafening him.

Any trace of amusement left the man's face, "Stay you weapons!" he barked, agitated, "Or you prince _will_ die!"

The sword pressured more on his throat and he sucked in a breath.

A sudden flash went off with a _BANG!_ Smoke began to drown every corner. He quickly recovered and saw his chance of escape—he rolled back and kicked away the sword threatening him. A fist rammed into his side. He choked on his saliva and fell over again, hacking out.

"Wonsik!" the voice called his name. He wanted to go to it—he wanted to see—

Everything went black with a sharp slam to his head.

_Darkness._

_The sounds of battle all around him._

_Bodies falling to the floor. He could hear them._

_The wails of the dead._

_The clashing of swords._

Everything rattled in his head. His blood throbbed in his ears.

Exhaustion weighed his eyes down against the struggle to pull them open.

Horrid metallic covered his taste buds, too thick a layer for his mouth to open.

Everything shifted when his body rolled over. His eyes finally peeled themselves open. Blood was the unbearable taste in his mouth. He groaned in pain.

The earlier chorus of voices had shrunken to just one—just one grunting and panting.

Though his body screamed for more darkness, he forced his arms to move. He pushed off the ground, world swaying but vision clearing. Multiple explosions created holes to reveal the sky above and ruins crowded all around him.

The gruesome _squelch_ of someone being slaughtered turned his head. He watched a bloodied body fall in front of another clad in stained, broken armor that covered broad shoulders set on a long frame. He could only see their back as they tipped their head up to the sky.

_The Lion._

He strained to his feet, staggering forward a few steps but catching his balance on a large slab of fallen stone. Alongside the thundering of fire that raged around the castle walls, he could hear the panting of the last person standing. Their sword clattered to the ground.

Blood and the entrails of their enemies coated them thickly; enough to trigger his gag reflex, but he held back strong. He took a deep breath, every part of his body aching in pain with it.

". . . T-Taekwoon." he rasped.

The warrior froze, shoulders squared. His body turned in shudders, as if he was overcome with fear from hearing a phantom. His shaggy black hair matted to his face with sweat, grime and blood, most of which was trailing down his pale skin. His eyes were wide in disbelief, bafflement, as if he really _were_ seeing a ghost.

He blinked several times, slowly rising and moving around all carnage as if it wasn't there. His armor that once shone like the full moon was cracked in several places, pieces falling while he paid no mind to the obstacles between them.

"Wonsik . . ." His voice cracked, hoarse and dry.

Wonsik held his breath, eyes burning. His arm wound tightly around his pained torso and he wobbled forward too, beat with what felt like thousands of hours of war.

The closer he got, the more Taekwoon's face softened, eyes glazed with relief. A sweet smile played along his split red lips and he finally stepped over the last body between them.

Wonsik looked into his shining eyes just above his. Tears already welled up with the need to spill.

Taekwoon raised his hands to place them on Wonsik's shoulders, a feather-like touch that seemed to never have taken a life in its entire existence—though the hands were stained with far too much red. Wonsik felt soothed under it.

Slowly, Taekwoon leaned forward. He placed the most gentle of kisses on his burning, sweaty forehead. Wonsik sighed while exhilaration and salvation flooded through him. Serenity closed his eyes.

A moment of eternity passed and then Taekwoon pulled back, dark eyes tender and loving. His war-calloused palms cupped Wonsik's cheeks and the rough pad of his thumb brushed along under one eye. He smiled. Wonsik's tears spilled over onto their joined skins. Taekwoon leaned their filthy foreheads together.

"My prince, my love . . ." he breathed, as if any louder would end the world, "I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

**Author's Note:**

> I need to learn to write. Based off [this prompt](http://otpdisaster.tumblr.com/post/104930338090).


End file.
